The Sorrow of the World Cannot Add Up to Now
by KrystalBlaze - Jerikor
Summary: Lt. Chris Burnett never knew war, pain, loss, or evil. But when he is shot down behind enemy lines and trapped in a labryinth, he finds out why sorrow is only a word used to describe the indescribable.
1. Default Chapter

Yes, people probably another worthless fic, but hell, my muse won't go away and I'm driving myself absolutely crazy.  
  
This is my first fic in this genre, if you don't know, my first movie one. I saw the movie and decided it was one of the best things to happen to the world since the invention of the wheel. Can't figure out why, but I loved it.  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own anything used in this fic! At all!  
  
Even though I'm in the Navy JROTC (Navy Junior Reserve Officer Training Corps) at my school, I'm not that well versed in my military and naval history and jets and stuff. I'm only a seaman and first year cadet! So I'm sorry to all you military people out there. I try.  
  
So I give you the first fic I have of "Behind Enemy Lines."  
  
  
  
  
  
The Sorrow in the World Cannot Add Up to Now  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
The Jell-O on my plate was fresh. I have to admit, you don't get fresh Jell-O that often. And when you do, you usually don't have to time to properly enjoy the blessing that you have been given. But the gods had decided to be good this day and I looked across the table at Lt. Stackhouse in bliss.  
  
"Good Jell-O," I said, pronouncing my words as if I was a child. "Good Jell-O."  
  
"Knock it off, Chris," Stackhouse replied, his words playfully stern. "You aren't serving the Navy in a way a naval officer should."  
  
"Shut up, Stack," I said, piling the food in my mouth, now only hunger in my mind.  
  
"So what are you Navy boys doing?" said a pleasantly amused voice. I looked over my shoulder. Rodway, the High and Mighty Marine, sauntered over, confidence in his every move. I growled in my throat a little and went back to my Jell-O. "Do any dangerous stuff lately?"  
  
"Shut up, Rod," Stackhouse said, his mouth full of food. "You're full of yourself."  
  
"Seems you are," Rodway answered, his dark eyes pointed directly at Stackhouse's laden mouth. "So have you done anything lately?"  
  
"Well," I said in a sarcastic tone. "I'm eating Jell-O . . . he's wiping his hands." They exchanged looks plainly, but I continued on as if they were nothing. "I mean, you can't do anything more than this!" I shook the table. "I mean, we're supposed to be doing something here. We're sitting on our asses, eating our freshly made Jell-O. You write home and how are you supposed to describe you're actually doing something? You're fighting for someone today and the enemies the next. For one thing, I ain't doing anything. I'm stuck here, eating Jell-O."  
  
"At least you get to fly," interjected Stackhouse emphatically. "Watch yourself, Burnett."  
  
"I mean," I clambered on. "Just look at it! Nothing! Nothing at all! It's infuriating."  
  
"Check out those guys," said Stackhouse, in a last ditch attempt to divert me from my primary focus.  
  
I turned my head. A crowd had gathered in a circle around two guys, one Marine, one Navy. They were engaged in a war of push-ups, typically rivalries on the USS Carl Vinson.  
  
"Look at that!" I exploded. "Look at it! Nothing worth anything!"  
  
Our country, the grand United States of America, was engaged in protecting countries. I had joined the Navy to help. Now I was just sitting on my ass. It was totally annoying, especially being with Marines, Navy and Coast Guard people, not to mention Army guys dropped off at times. It was quietly disheartening and I wanted out.  
  
"Lt. Burnett!"  
  
I looked up, surprised.  
  
Master Chief O'Mally stood in the doorway of the mess hall, peering down on me imposingly. "Admiral Reigart commands your presence."  
  
I stood up and smiled down at Stackhouse and Rodway. "See you in hell," I said and went after O'Mally.  
  
Damn, the gods had started off good, but now my good Jell-O sat uneaten on my plate.  
  
What a nice way to start a day.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
"I hold your letter," said Reigart, his broad voice filling the cabin. "It seems you wish to . . . withdraw from the Navy, am I correct?"  
  
"Yes, sir," I replied, waves breaking inside of me. "I believe it's time for me to move on, sir."  
  
"Move on?" barked Reigart sarcastically. "Move on to what? Flying an air bus full of civilians?"  
  
"Well, sir, if that's what calls me," I said tensely.  
  
"Son, do you have any idea what you are doing? I remember when you came on board. Bright, young, extremely smart. But now you want to withdraw." His voice was brimming with anger. "You have given me a reason why, but I don't like it."  
  
"Sir," I said, my eyes burning. "I've given the Navy seven good years. I think I've served my country, sir."  
  
"You don't know a goddamn thing about serving your country," he spat, his wrinkled face jutting up.  
  
"Sir, people around here run around like we're at war or something," I said, equally as angry. "I mean, war isn't supposed to-"  
  
"You don't know a goddamn thing about war either!" he snarled. I stopped speaking as he stood up, his old body shaking with anger. "You haven't seen your enemy fire at you, or the people you are sworn to protect die in front of your eyes, innocent civilians caught in enemy fire! You haven't slept in a foxhole or watched your men die in front of your eyes. So until you've been in war, don't you goddamn speak to me about it!"  
  
He was staring at me like I was supposed to have an answer. I didn't reply.  
  
"You have two weeks left on this tour," he said, his voice burnt. "I expect you to behave with behavior befitting of a naval officer. Until then, I will carry your letter with me and think about what you have said and haven't. Dismissed, Lieutenant."  
  
I stared at him for an instant. How dare he tell me what to do? How dare he, goddamn him, I wanted out!  
  
I did an about-face and stormed from the cabin.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
"We're so proud of you," my father told me, his voice swelled more than I ever heard it.  
  
"Yeah, Dad, I love you. Bye." I hung up the phone and cast my gaze to the board sitting on the other side of the hall. I went toward it, squinting as I read what the seaman recruit had written:  
  
Stackhouse/Burnett  
  
"Damn it!" I cursed as Stackhouse came up behind me. "They have us flying holiday mission! Man, they don't like us."  
  
"Not us," Stackhouse corrected as I turned to face him. "Not us, you. You, Chris." He smirked at me and motioned. "Come on, Burnett, let's go get ready and miss the one decent meal of the year."  
  
"Damn you," I replied and followed him.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Reigart is a fool, I told myself, staring at the trees fluffed with snow streaming by underneath us. I've done everything I set out to do and now I want nothing more to do with the military. I do nothing here and they don't need me. I'm just one navigator with nothing and they need me. Damn them all.  
  
"Damn" seemed to be my favorite word today.  
  
"And look at the lovely lake," said Stackhouse, drawing me from my revere. "And kudos goes out to lovely American taxpayers for their millions of wasted dollars for fuel for this damn Hornet." The country of the Bosnia lay below it. It was a beautiful, rough country, but war was tearing it apart, and the United States military was supposed to be protecting it. Of course, we just sat most of the time.  
  
"Good job, Stack, now you're getting into it," I said, watching the scope carefully. "But try to relax a bit. Make it seem natural." A green light was flickering on the highly electronic scope. It showed me positions of everything and movements of people with firepower. Nothing was supposed to be out here. "Stack, there's something up on that ridge over there."  
  
"You sure?" he asked, doubtfully.  
  
"Scope dosen't lie, bud," I told him, craning my neck to try and see the through the dense trees.  
  
"Probably just some natives screwing around," he told me. "It's off our range, anyway. We're not supposed to fly over there. This is strictly reconnaissance."  
  
"C'mon, Stack," I coaxed. "It'll give us a chance to try our shiny new digital camera."  
  
"Why do I listen to you?" he said, his voice pitiful.  
  
"Because you love me," I cooed.  
  
"Fuck you, Burnett." He angled the plane towards the ridge.  
  
"So violent, young one," I told him. "So, so violent, young one. So-"  
  
The plane tipped sharply down.  
  
"Stack!"  
  
"Shut up," he said, almost lazily as we sped over the forest of trees. "You're getting on my nerves.  
  
"Damn you." My favorite word again came into play. We zoomed over a clearing.  
  
Tanks and men dominated the scene as I switched on the camera. I could barely see, but I wondered. It was probably just rebels.  
  
"Say hello boys," Stack said. "You're on TV."  
  
"It's a camera, gumball brain."  
  
"Gumball brain? Are you calling me a gumball brain?" He went sideways, giving the camera full view of the rough terrain as we sped by in different courses. "Very original, did you think of that one yourself?"  
  
"No, my mother told it to me. I was an unloved child."  
  
"Damn straight. The effects are obvious."  
  
"Is it showing? The therapist told me I might never be the same. I'm such a poor boy."  
  
"I wouldn't say that. We get supplied decently from the Navy. It's not much, but it's good, and we get to see the world."  
  
"Shut it, Stackhouse," I told him, aware of what he was doing.  
  
"C'mon, Chris," he said, his voice urgent. "Where else are you gonna get to do this? Where? Not flying some damn airplane for the damn President!"  
  
"Listen, rock stars need their people too! Richie Valens was pure talent and Navy pilots wouldn't have gotten him killed!"  
  
"Burnett, listen to yourself! You're absolutely crazy!"  
  
An alarm began to sound.  
  
"Holy shit, we're being aimed!'  
  
"What?" Stackhouse yelped, turning the F-18 into a wild roll.  
  
"We're being aimed at!" I furiously punched in some keys. "It's a missile! We're being aimed at by a missile!"  
  
"I can see that!" roared Stackhouse as he continued to move the F-18 wildly. "I'm trying, I'm trying!"  
  
I looked out the top of the Hornet. I could see the sleek missile sliding towards us, gaining on us. "One hundred yards, Stack! MOVE!"  
  
"I'm trying!" he yelled again.  
  
Another alarm began to blare.  
  
"Another one!' I shouted, unable to keep it in. Fear began to claw at me. Who would be aiming at us? Not the people in the mountains, only the government had that type of power! Whose country was this, goddamn it, I couldn't even remember! "STACK!"  
  
"I'm working on it!"  
  
"Pull up!"  
  
"Too much weight!"  
  
"Dodge!" A missile zoomed by us. "Drop the fuel tanks, Stack! Drop them!"  
  
"Engaging!"  
  
Two tanks went flying off into the snowy mountains.  
  
"Repercussion!" I shouted. "Pull up!" Stackhouse yanked the plane into a steep uphill climb.  
  
The tanks, propelled by the pressure, exploded.  
  
I watched the scope for the missiles. It was too fuzzy to read and I looked behind the F-18. One missile slammed into the steaming pile of smoke and ash. "Straight into the fireball!" I yelled.  
  
"One more left!" Stackhouse jerked the plane around. "NO!"  
  
"Fifty yards!" I screamed. "Fifty yards! STACKHOUSE!"  
  
"We're gonna get hit!" he screamed back. I looked back and stared. The steely face of the missile glared back, its cloud of fire and smoke billowing behind it like a tail.  
  
"Turn!" I roared. He yanked it around.  
  
The missile slammed into our tail.  
  
"NOOO!"  
  
I could fell air pulling at me, rushing at me, heat licking at my back.  
  
NO NO NO NO!  
  
We were going to die! I was going to die! NO!  
  
I frantically pressed buttons, anything to stop this freefall.  
  
I ejected.  
  
  
  
I haven't explained yet, so I will. This is totally like the movie, the way I think it should have been instead of the way it was. T he movie left a lot of unexplained answers and feelings and that's why I'm writing this, to give closure to myself.  
  
Extremely poetic and stupid, but hey, sue me. I'm sorry if you don't like or think it's fake, but hey, again, this is the way I wanted to do it. Thanx.  
  
I'd really like it if you'd review! 


	2. At the End of Everything

Disclaimer: I own nothing, until I state otherwise. If I do, than the things I state to own belong solely to me!  
  
Special thank you to Jen, the first person in the green earth to review my fic, and also the only one to review it as well (rolls eyes at the pitifully stupid). So thanks, Jen, you have made my week so nice!  
  
Well, kudos also to Erin who's been emailing me about my story. Thanks for the comments!  
  
Also, the Bosnians are going to speak . . . whatever language they speak. German's pretty close to English and they didn't sound like they were speaking English in the movie, so I think this is Russian. So I'm gonna call it Russian. If it's not, I feel terrible, but please tell me. Back to my point. Since I don't know Russian, I can't write it in Russian, you follow? So I'm going to write it in English, but I'll indicate in the story when it's supposed to be Russian, okay? So now that that's settled.  
  
And another thing (I know you're getting tired, but I need to explain things). I'm not quite sure of the names of the Serbians. I know the head guy's name is Lokar, the tracker is Sasha, but I'm not quite sure of the other guy, the guy that dosen't like Sasha but goes with him to track Chris anyway. I give him a name, but I'll let you get there when you get there. If you got his name, I want it, please.  
  
And another thing (this is the last!). Stackhouse's first name is Jeremy, it was on the Superhornet they took off in at the beginning. I don't think I use it, but if I do, now you know who he is.  
  
So finally I am done!  
  
Here you are, Jen, the next chapter!  
  
  
  
Chapter Two  
  
At the End of Everything  
  
  
  
The wind whipped by me in a whirl that I could barely see through. Stackhouse was below me, careening in a crazy spiral that I knew was more dangerous than my own. The world below him went by in an unreadable map, a high, cold, dry plateau of green, white, and brown. My life wasn't flashing before my eyes; it was the country that I had sworn to protect that had shot me down.  
  
I surveyed the country before me as I drifted down, the icy wind giving wings to my parachute. I released my ejection seat and it crashed down at an alarming pace into a lake of ice. The crash seemed magnified to my ears as it stuck deep into the lake. Poor seat.  
  
The lake was stationed on a high, rocky cliff. The cliff jutted out into a rounded corner with a statue placed on the lip of it. A statue of an angel- or whatever the hell it was- was beautifully smooth. My mother would have found it simply ravishing. Of course, I wasn't my mother. I had to admire its intricate artwork, the time and work that must have gone into its making. The face was gentle and welcoming.  
  
I drifted past it at a swift pace. As I went past, I angled my head back.  
  
As I saw it, I shuddered violently with a force I didn't know, had never known in my life.  
  
One side of the face was smooth and beautiful, a mother asking for a hug from her child.  
  
The other side was a jagged scar where a face should have been, a darkened cave of nothing but exploded stone.  
  
I could think of only one name for the emotion that shook my body and erased the thoughts for my mind.  
  
The name of that feeling was fear.  
  
  
  
The trees rushed up at me at a blinding speed. I was going to fast and was too far away from the field that Stackhouse had landed in. Instead, dead trees loomed before me, there spindly branches like beckoning arms. I yelled as I crashed into them.  
  
Claws tore at me as I slammed through them, drawing red lines in my face and hands.  
  
I came to a jerking halt as my 'chute caught in the trees. The air was knocked from my lungs. Panting, I looked down. The ground was good ten feet away from me.  
  
"Damn it," I cursed to myself, snarling. I fumbled with the buckles of the 'chute frantically. They came unclasped finally and I fell the rest of the way to the ground.  
  
"Damn it!" I yelled as I hit the forest floor. Damn this pain. I jumped to my feet, gritting my teeth and tearing away my flight helmet. I wouldn't need it. I needed to find Stackhouse, that's what I needed to do.  
  
I ran through the trees, catching sight of a plain of green through the crinkled branches. Blood seeped down my face and I felt my head as I ran. It was a shallow cut, but it was bleeding like I had hit an artery. Damn it.  
  
Stackhouse's parachute came into view as I broke through the line of trees. "Stackhouse!" I hollered as I raced towards him. "Stack! Stackhouse!" Through the tall weeds I ran. Where was he? Oh God, he was hurt. He should have been up and running too.  
  
"Stack!"  
  
"Burnett!"  
  
I felt relief sweep through me. At least he wasn't dead.  
  
I reached the small patch of clear grass in the next second. "Stack!" He was lying on the ground, looking up at me. His 'chute lay spread out behind him, but he had unstrapped the buckles. I looked him over up and down.  
  
"You okay?" I asked him, panting.  
  
"Yeah, you? Where's your 'chute?" he asked, wincing.  
  
"Stuck in a tree," I told him, bending down next to him. "Your hurt. Where?"  
  
"My leg," he said, motioning. "I didn't eject right away and the plane started burning. Don't worry though, it's not too bad."  
  
"Let me take away the leg and clean it," I said, starting to work.  
  
"My leg?" he said, alarmed.  
  
"The pant leg, stupid."  
  
"Oh sorry." He started looked around at the desolate landscape. "So where are we, mister navigator man?"  
  
"In the middle of Mesovich, it seems," I said, also looking around.  
  
"You think it's hostile?"  
  
I wrapped a clean piece of cloth around his burn and stood up. "We're not going to be around long enough to find out," I told him and started to take out my radio.  
  
"Already tried it," he said, sounding depressed. "You have to get to those hills." He indicated with his head.  
  
"You mean I gotta walk up there?"  
  
"Use your superior sense of direction, mister navigator man," he said, joking. "Just get us the hell out of here before someone finds us."  
  
"Yeah, okay. Reigart's going to be pissed we lost his bird, though."  
  
"You can say that again," Stackhouse whistled. "Well, get going."  
  
"Sit tight." I started off. "Don't move."  
  
"Fucking funny, Chris," he snickered. He quieted suddenly. "Chris, I should have dodged the second missile."  
  
I stopped for an instant. He was trying to blame himself.  
  
No, it wasn't his fault. I was the one trying to take us of the photo recon mission.  
  
But he needed some humor, not an apology.  
  
"Yeah, you're right," I said wickedly. "You're losing your edge, man." His flight helmet came flying at me. "See you in a few!"  
  
"A few!"  
  
I started running towards the hill.  
  
  
  
  
  
Lokar was waiting impatiently for his phone call as the soldier burst through his door and started to speak in Russian.  
  
"They're downed, sir," the soldier said. "Sasha's group has got them."  
  
"Captured them?" his second in command, Belzor, asked.  
  
The Serbian military leader looked at the soldier intently.  
  
"No," the soldier stammered. "But they're on the way."  
  
Just then his cell phone rang. Lokar answered it with a quick word.  
  
"We have their position and are waiting. We found the plane."  
  
Lokar stopped.  
  
"We're they flying recon?" he asked.  
  
"I'm not sure," replied his best tracker. "We haven't found a camera yet, but we're looking. Are you coming?"  
  
"Yes, I'm coming. Meet me at the bunker."  
  
He snapped his phone shut and cast his gaze to Belzor. "Come, Belzor. They know where they are. Let's go get them."  
  
  
  
Stackhouse heard them before he saw them.  
  
He turned his head to the hill behind his fallen body. Rifle shots were fired into the air, the sounds of men close behind. He squinted, his heart pounding so loud he thought that it would burst from his chest. Fear gripped him, a fear he had not felt for a long time.  
  
From the edge of the hill, a tip of a tank appeared. A man appeared. The muzzle of a rifle appeared.  
  
Stackhouse moved back frantically. These weren't American soldiers. He wasn't even sure they were soldiers at all. From behind the first wave came a second, then a third, then a fourth, then more than he could keep track of. The men were marching down before the tanks, in disorganized groups that looked more like a mob than an army or company.  
  
He touched his gun, then agitatedly looked through the maze of trees of his east. He couldn't spot Burnett anywhere. At least Chris was out of harm's way.  
  
He touched his gun briefly. No. Any hostile movement and they might shoot him.  
  
Suddenly they were around him, moving in a circle around him, surrounding him, guns being cocked and pointed at him.  
  
A man stepped forward, his teeth rotted and his rifle being carried like a treasure. With an enraged smile, he rose his foot and stepped on Stackhouse's burn.  
  
Stackhouse winced in agony. His gun was stripped from him and then another stepped forward and kicked him.  
  
Suddenly the men stopped, halted by an authoritative voice in Russian. Stackhouse, his leg still burning in agony, looked up at a man staring down at him. He wore the cap of a Bosnian military official, his rifle slung casually over his solider.  
  
"You on reconnaissance mission?" the man asked in thick English.  
  
Stackhouse didn't reply. It would be better if he didn't speak.  
  
"You take pictures?" the man persisted.  
  
Still, Stackhouse didn't answer. The officer looked back at his men and said something in Russian. The men started to snicker and laugh. Stackhouse lowered his head.  
  
"You alone?" the man asked roughly.  
  
For one moment, Stackhouse looked fleetingly at the hills. He couldn't see Chris. He looked back at the man before him. If they knew Chris was out there, they would find him and take him.  
  
"Correct," he answered, holding his breath.  
  
The man peered at him purposefully, then hit him softly on the cheek before he stood up.  
  
A flame of anger flared in him, but he didn't move.  
  
The officer barked at his men in Russian, then at one in particular. They exchanged words and his gun was given to the new man. Then the officer followed the other men as they started away from the spot.  
  
Maybe they were letting him go. Maybe they were giving him back. What did they need him for? He hadn't seen anything wrong. He had flown off course, sure, but it wasn't a good reason to keep him. Maybe they were just hotheads who liked bullying people.  
  
The second man came over to him and grunted something in Russian. He bent down and put grabbed him by both arms. He started to pull on him.  
  
Stackhouse decided he was trying to pull him up and helped himself up, leaning on the other man for support. When he was on his feet, the Serb left him there and move behind him. He started to look back, but didn't. It would be better if he didn't.  
  
Then he heard the cock of his gun and then everything for him went black.  
  
  
  
What the hell were they doing? Who the hell were they?  
  
The men had formed a ring around Stackhouse, but when the blue car pulled up, they made way for the three men that emerged from it. The binoculars I held were only so powerful. They were talking to Stackhouse, but I couldn't hear or properly see them.  
  
Who were they? They looked like Serbs, but they could easily be rebel groups. If that was the case . . . no, but wait, the cap was that of a Bosnian military man.  
  
Suddenly they started to disperse around Stackhouse-all but one man. The other started away, away from the hills they had come over. The man was helping Stackhouse to his feet, pulling him roughly. When Stackhouse got to his feet, the Serb left him there and stood in back of him, fiddling with his gun.  
  
I realized what was going to happen as he rose the gun swiftly.  
  
"NOOOOO!"  
  
The boom echoed throughout the countryside. Stackhouse fell to the ground, dead.  
  
The Serb who had shot him turned to look at the hills, hearing my scream.  
  
Stack was dead, Jeremy was dead, he was dead!  
  
They had shot him!  
  
The Serb started shouting in Russian to his other men.  
  
Stackhouse was dead!  
  
Guns started to fire upon the hills.  
  
Stackhouse was dead.  
  
Dead.  
  
Dead.  
  
Dead.  
  
Dead.  
  
Dead!  
  
Bullets sprayed the ground below me.  
  
He was dead and now they were firing on me.  
  
Oh, God, what was happening? What had happened?  
  
I was an American, goddamn it, an American and they weren't supposed to kill me!  
  
The bullets began to move closer.  
  
They weren't supposed to! It wasn't right! They weren't supposed to kill me!  
  
I leaped to my feet and started running away, the echo of the bullet that had killed Stackhouse still in my mind.  
  
He was dead and now they were firing at me.  
  
God, why? Oh God, why? 


	3. Painted Red

Thanks to Jen and BrokenLizard.  
  
A/N: the first two parts of this fic I was going really fast, because I wanted to get into the meat of it. Now I'm going to slow down and explain things more. Okay? Get it, got it, good.  
  
Here is the next part of "The Sorrow of the World Cannot Add Up to Now."  
  
  
  
Painted Red  
  
  
  
Chapter Three  
  
  
  
  
  
"You've thrown a hell of a party, sir," Master Chief Tom O'Malley told Admiral Leslie Reigart as they sat at the grand table, eating their food off of the glass plates.  
  
"We like Christmas," Reigart replied, nodding his head, his eyes casting out at the soldiers in front of him. There were many at this time, all happy to be away from the monotone of everyday life aboard the ship. At the top of that list would be Lt. Chris Burnett.  
  
He felt anger at the very thought. The boy was just that, a boy, and he acted like he knew everything in the whole damn world. What gave him the nerve to ask to be let out of the Navy? He didn't have any right. Sure, the life onboard might be the painfully the same everyday, and also boring down to its very pure core, but it was necessary.  
  
It never ceased to amaze Reigart how extremely arrogant his men were of that fact. The drills were made to keep the men on their toes, to keep them constantly alert and aware of what they had to do. It didn't matter if they weren't at war! Half the time in the world they weren't and war, but who the hell cared? War was something delicate and rugged at the same time. It could be broken and started easily, and then the hardest thing in the world to erase. The drills and training prepared men for that, made them what they were! What if a bomb suddenly dropped in the ocean at that very moment? The damn drills and training would come into play then and there and save lives!  
  
How could somebody as naïve and green as Burnett tell him what to do?  
  
"Sir." It was a man, leaning down to whisper in his ear. "Sir, we've lost an F-18 and need your assistance immediately."  
  
What?  
  
He looked up at the seaman apprentice in disbelief.  
  
"Sir," the man said again, more urgently.  
  
"I'm coming." He turned to O'Malley. "Come on." He stood up and dropped his fork with an angry clatter. How could they have lost an F-18?  
  
"It's Arc Angel 0-6," said the apprentice as they hurried down the halls towards the main deck.  
  
"Stackhouse and Burnett!" Damn them! "Goddamn it, I put them on holiday mission! What the hell were they doing?"  
  
"What happened?" O'Malley asked, alarmed. "What about them?'  
  
"They got shot down," Reigart growled as they reached the deck. "Where?"  
  
"Sir," said a new man, an intelligence specialist. "Come, I'll show you what happened."  
  
The man led them through the maze that was the main deck to a large glass computer screen. It showed a lay out of land, along with ocean and many lines.  
  
"This is Bosnia," the specialist said, pointing. A yellow line zigged forward and across the land, back into the sea. "That is the route Arc Angel was supposed to take. Their actual course shows in red." A red line appeared. It moved forward fluidly, staying on the yellow one for half the way, then suddenly arching into the Bosnian countryside. A dot began to blink by the yellow line. "We lost radio contact here and from whatever little data we can find, we think they were being painted."  
  
"Painted?" Riegart asked, shocked. "By whom?"  
  
"We're not sure, sir. It could be anybody." The specialist started to tick off on his fingers. "The rebels, the Serbs, some other out of state military force, a militia-"  
  
"I get the point," Riegart snarled, staring up at the glass screen. "Have you tried contacting the radio?"  
  
"It dosen't work. Their probably too densely covered to get a good enough reception."  
  
"That's all?" Riegart felt a migraine begin to start behind his eyes. Of all the days, it had to be Christmas. What had happened? What could have taken them off their flight path?  
  
"Nothing right now, sir. If they ejected, we might be able to find the homing beacon on the ejection seat. It also could be cutting off their signal. Would you like us to turn it off?"  
  
"No. Keep in on so we at least have some damn idea about where the hell they are." He turned to O'Malley. "Contact Piquet and Donnelley," he told him, naming the commanders of NATO forces. "Tell them what's happened. Tell them there is a possible situation, but not to get too steamed and we need to wait." He started away, to his private quarters. "No names," he said over his shoulder.  
  
"Aye aye, sir," O'Malley replied and darted in front of him, hurriedly walking towards the bow of the ship.  
  
"Tell me if anything comes up," Reigart told the spec. behind him. "Got it?"  
  
"Yes, sir," the specialist answered smartly. "Anything, sir."  
  
"Good." Reigart stormed away from him and out of the bustling dark place. Questions, mindless, stupid questions went through his mind. If they had only stayed on the damn flight path! It was stupid of them to fly from it. It would violate the treaty!  
  
Admiral Piquet had recently created a treaty, a cease-fire treaty almost, with Bosnia. NATO forces were withdrawing from Bosnia now, with only four days left to go. The treaty stated that Bosnian militants and military would not fire upon American troops, but only if the Americans agreed to stay in restricted areas. Admiral Piquet had ordered Reigart to command his pilots to stay on the agreed flight paths and trails.  
  
Reigart thought he had made it clear to all his pilots. Appearently, that was not true for Stackhouse and Burnett.  
  
"If only the damned fools had stayed on their flight path," he cursed as he approached his quarters. "They're going to get themselves killed."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
The bullets were thunking into the ground behind me, into the naked trees on either side of me. I could hear the angry bursts of the guns as they clicked off, hear the shouts and yells of the men behind me, chasing me.  
  
The wind whistled past my ears. The breath inside of my chest felt cold and painful. And still, the bullets rained down behind.  
  
God, they had killed Stackhouse. God, they were trying to kill me. God, the sky was so gray, the trees so cold, the bullets behind me so fire filled . . .  
  
They were falling behind me, their tanks slowed by the trees! The terrain in front of me continued to be inhabited by trees! I just had to keep running, just had to keep pumping my legs, keep breathing, keep ignoring the picture that was racing through my mind, the picture of Stackhouse, standing, the picture of Stackhouse, falling . . .  
  
My legs still moved and my chest still stung.  
  
But suddenly the trees in front of me were red.  
  
  
  
Sasha left the fallen American where he lay with blood streaming from his back and ran to where Lokar stood with his second-in-command, Bazda.  
  
"Lokar," he spat in Russian. "Let me go after the other American. You want this man dead and I can do it. Send me. Only me."  
  
"That's ridiculous!" Bazda said immediately. "He's running alone. He's scared and has nowhere to go. We'll catch him in good time."  
  
"Hold your tongue!" Sasha moved away from the man who competed with him to be Miroslav Lokar's second man. "You don't know anything!"  
  
"Silence, both of you!" Lokar glared furiously at them both. "You both find him. You work together. I want his head in two days!" The military leader glanced at where the first American man still lay, blood still trickling from the bullet wound that Sasha had given him. He stared at that for a long while.  
  
"Lokar," Bazda said, breaking the man out of his trance. "No, we can capture him. Do not let this . . . man find the American. He will kill him and drown the body."  
  
Sasha stared at him in contempt, but said nothing.  
  
"Stop arguing." Lokar finally looked at them both. "You will get along and find him. Kill him and . . ." his gaze went back to the bloody American. "Bring me that one's body."  
  
"Let it rot," Bazda snarled. "Filthy American."  
  
"They'll want his body back, you fool," Sasha snapped. "I'll get it."  
  
"Let it rot," Bazda said, looking at Lokar.  
  
"Get it, Sasha." Lokar stared at Bazda, his eyes burning. "You will not fight this man, you will not! Now get over there and find that other one."  
  
Bazda wisely said nothing this time.  
  
Sasha looked at him superciliously, then started towards the American. Bazda hesitated, but another look from Lokar sent him scurrying after his rival, and now his partner.  
  
Lokar stared after them, then looked back to the fallen American.  
  
Something was not right, but there wasn't time for that now. He went after his captain and started to shout orders.  
  
  
  
  
  
The cliff face was high and rocky, its jagged edges thrusting out like daggers.  
  
I had left the tanks and men far behind a few minutes ago. My chest was still cold and painful, and now my ankle was hurting. I must have had tripped over something when I had been fleeing the Serbs. It hurt to apply too much pressure, but there was nothing I could do about it.  
  
I took the radio out of my pouch and tried a frequency. "Alpha Whiskey, this is Arc Angel 0-6, Alpha Whiskey this is Arc 0-6, over."  
  
There was a slight buzz.  
  
I felt panic sweep through me as my hands began to shake.  
  
"Alpha Whiskey, this is Arc Angel 0-6, please reply!"  
  
It buzzed louder.  
  
No. I looked up the rock face.  
  
This was my only way to contact the Carl Vinson. I needed to get to them. I needed to get out of his country.  
  
I sucked in my breath and tried to look at this objectively. This wasn't me. I just had to get to the top. Nobody was chasing me and Stackhouse wasn't dead.  
  
But Stackhouse is dead and his killers are chasing me.  
  
No. He was not and this was one of the mountains that I had used to climb back home in the States.  
  
Yes. That was the answer.  
  
I replaced the radio back into my pouch and tested my ankle. It held my weight, but stung. No matter. I could make it. I gathered a hold on the cliff and started to climb up.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
"Admiral Piquet is in a conference with Donnelley," O'Malley reported to Reigart inside his office. "They cannot be disturbed and will get back to us as soon as possible."  
  
"That's good," said Reigart sarcastically, then looked out his window into the deep ocean. "Any word from the plane?"  
  
"None yet," O'Malley answered, his voice dejected. "Maybe they didn't make it."  
  
"Don't-"  
  
"Admiral!"  
  
A crewmember burst into the office.  
  
"Sir, we have a signal from Arc Angel," he panted. O'Malley looked at Reigart, speechless.  
  
"Don't ever say that, O'Malley," Riegart advised, then went after the man back to the main deck.  
  
He almost crashed into the man in front of him when he reached the deck. Lt. Chris Burnett's voice was around him, loud and cracked.  
  
"What's wrong?" he asked loudly.  
  
"The homing beacon on the ejection seat is interfering," said one of the controllers.  
  
"Shut it off," he said.  
  
  
  
  
  
"Alpha Whiskey?" I shook the radio. The voice had been faint and barely there, but it had been there. Now I heard a large amount of static, with only a monotone that sounded like a voice. "Alpha Whiskey, this is Arc Angel 0-6, over."  
  
"Arc Angel, this is Alpha Whiskey."  
  
I almost stood up and shouted my joy so that it would echo from the mountaintop down to the valley below and flood the country of Bosnia.  
  
"Arc Angle, confirm a count," said a voice I now recognized as Admiral Reigart's.  
  
I sat down very suddenly, very hard.  
  
My chest started to hurt again. I had climbed the mountain carelessly, only intent on getting to my destination. But now Stackhouse's death came back to me. Now the fact his murderers were chasing me came back to me.  
  
"0-6, confirm a count."  
  
"One down, Stackhouse, they shot him." I lowered my head, tears welling in back of my eyes.  
  
"No names over the net!" There was a shaky pause. "Recalculate and repeat."  
  
I took calming breaths. "One down, confirmed. The Serbs . . . they . . . they killed my pilot."  
  
There was a long pause and when Reigart came back on again, he sounded like he didn't believe me. "Calm down a minute, son. Are you saying an uniformed officer shot your pilot?"  
  
Anger exploded with me, mingling with the tears in back of my eyes to produce nothing now but a suffocating steam. "No, I'm saying they executed him. I repeat, they executed him and now they're chasing me."  
  
"Chasing you?"  
  
"Damn you, they killed him and now they're chasing me!"  
  
"Take it easy, take it easy. Consult your maps and check for the rendezvous point."  
  
I blinked and opened the pocket on my pants and took out the map of the Bosnian country. He read out of some numbers and I found it. It wasn't far, about five miles to my east.  
  
"Maintain radio silence and will meet at 1500 hours," Reigart said, his voice somehow more compassionate than I would ever think it could be. "Just get yourself to the RP, son."  
  
"Over, out." I replaced the radio and stared out at the Bosnian countryside. This was such a beautiful country. It had lovely scenery and was even lovelier in the spring.  
  
But now it was smothered in sickening red. It was dripping with tears and bullet wounds and lost lives and blood.  
  
The air was sharp and painful, the cruelest winter wind. I looked down the mountain that I just scaled up. I had to go back down now. This time I couldn't run. This time I couldn't forget about my destination. This time I had to think and use my tools and reach the RP.  
  
If only I hadn't taken Stackhouse away from the course. If only I hadn't insisted. Why wasn't I the one that had died? Why was Stackhouse that had taken the punishment for the havoc I had reaped?  
  
I looked once more about the ravaged Bosnian countryside.  
  
So colorful now. So colorful because now the countryside was draped with nothing but red. 


	4. Deathtrap

Sorry this chapter took so long! My monitor blew out totally and I couldn't get on the computer for like a week. Luckily, it was only the monitor, and I didn't lose any of my stories. Whew.

Thanks to all who've reviewed, especially Erin aka BrokenLizard. Thanks a bunch! And also to Betsy, who pointed out to me the Serbs speak Serbian. I looked it up on the internet and you are right, Betsy, my mistake, and from here on in, I'll say they are speaking Serbian. 

A/N: I've just finished reading "Basher Five-Two" by Air Force Captain Scott O'Grady. He is really a pilot who was shot down in Bosnia in 1995. I've learned a lot of facts from that book and that I have made a lot of stupid mistakes. I'll correct them, but mainly what I learned deals with the peace treaty. 

The peace treaty was to keep Serbians, Muslims, and Croatians from killing each other in Bosnia. NATO was assisting with the peace process and flying over a designated "no-fly zone" that was supposed to be free of any attacks. It was supposed to be a safe haven, sort of, and NATO named that mission Operation Deny Flight. It's not a treaty to withdraw NATO forces peacefully (well, it included that, but wasn't only that), like I said in previous chapters.

Hate long author's notes! I'm sorry, but you should know what a stupid mistake I made.

Chapter Four

Deathtrap

Admiral Leslie Reigart watched out the window towards the sea that was calmly and powerfully rushing by. He knew for a fact that below the ship, Captain Rodway was assembling a team of trained Marines to rescue Lt. Burnett. O'Malley was somewhere, probably still trying to reach Piquet and Donnelly. He needed their permission first, but he was certain they would give it. No man could be left to defend himself against the forces of heaven and hell, and Reigart had no doubt that those were the conditions that faced Burnett.

The door knocked and he said quietly, "Come." It opened. Reigart angled his head backward, then gaped as Admiral Juan-Miguel Piquet closed the door behind him firmly.

Admiral Piquet was the Commander of NATO Sea forces. It was he who had concocted the delicate peace treaty and he who knew everything and anything in the Navy. 

"Sir," Reigart started.

"Who ordered the mission?" Piquet interrupted crudely. He stepped forward. Reigart cocked his head, taken aback.

"I did, sir. Who else would?"

"I'm in the mood for speculating, Admiral. Call it off."

"What?"

"Call it off, Leslie. Stand down."

"What are you talking about? We have a man down."

"I know the facts, Admiral. **Stand down.**" Piquet's voice was laced with nothing less than expectance of total obedience.

"Admiral Piquet, I don't know what you're talking about, but we have an F-18 down in Bosnia and two pilots, one of them probably already dead. The navigator is on the run." He couldn't see Piquet's thread of logic. He had to be joking. The Navy did not leave men stranded in hostile territory, they did not. 

"I'm not joking, Admiral." Now Piquet growled, his voice demanding. "Call it off. Your men were off mission, weren't they?"

Reigart swallowed, then said hesitantly, "Yes, but-"

"The Serbs say it was renegade forces," Piquet stated, staring at his junior.

"Of course they're going to say that," spat Reigart. How could this man be telling him this? Piquet had always been an asshole, but usually he was reasonable. 

"And can your man, Burnett, I believe, tell the difference between the uniforms of Croats, Serbs, and Muslims? Because I certainly can't, Reigart, and I've been here for five years." Piquet started to walk in a slow circle now, around Reigart. "Stand down, Admiral, or I will do it for you. This will violate the treaty I have worked so hard for. Everything is in jeopardy as it is already. You tell your man to get out of there and get to the safe zone. He got himself into this, and he can get himself out."

Reigart stepped forward, furious. "Admiral, you have to understand-"

"No, Leslie, you have to understand," Piquet snarled. "One man is not going to disrupt this treaty or this peace process. Under your training, he is supposed to be capable. I don't know what the hell he was doing off mission, but he is not, I repeat, he is not going to injure the situation any more by having our forces go into Bosnia and rescue him."

Riegart didn't speak. How could Piquet do this? 

"And, Admiral," said Piquet as he started out the door, his eyes burning fire. "Master Chief O'Malley has something for you that I was hoping to present personally, but given the gravity of the situation, I think he'll do it for me. Just don't use it to a negative extent, Admiral. Have a nice day." 

He closed the door behind him.

Reigart stared down at the deck of the ship. Burnett was already headed toward the rally point. Rodway was below, recruiting a team of Marines. And here Piquet had come, ordering the mission off and everything scrubbed. Damn Piquet, damn the world, damn Burnett.

Reigart grabbed his cover and went out his door, prepared to command Rodway to stop his mission, and prepared to contact Burnett.

When I reached the bottom of the cliff, I realized how stupid it had been to climb up it. I had been wide in the open and painfully vulnerable to any Serbian sniper who would be happy to slam a bullet into my American body. What had they taught me in survival training? Was I really getting that terrible?

I tucked myself into a thick cover of brush and made sure I was completely covered. I took the survival pack clipped to my hips and started to sort through what I had. I had about eight flexipacks of water. I consulted the tiny canvasses. I had maybe a quart in the tiny packs. It wouldn't last me long. I went through the rest: compass, map, cards, some rope, the basic pack. I reached the bottom and realized how ill equipped I was. 

The grind of the normal ship life had taken its toll. I was supposed to be prepared for anything in this wilderness, prepared to be shot down, prepared to be taken prisoner. I was supposed to have all my equipment ready and eager, everything in order and myself in a calm state of mind. I had none of those things. Damn myself and damn the whole world!

I took deep, calming breaths. I had to think. I had to get to the RP by 3:00 this afternoon. I checked the digital watch clamped to my wrist. I had two hours to reach the RP. It wasn't much time. Why couldn't Reigart suspend the time? He knew it was dangerous to travel in daylight. Anything could happen during the day, one stray bullet could find its way towards me so easily . . .

No.

I threw my gear back into the kit and clipped it back to my hips. I had five miles to travel and I needed to be slow and precise in my movements. The Serbs were still looking for me, they had to be. They wouldn't give me up so easily. But why would they even want to kill me? 

Surely not for just violating the no-flight zone. They could get into more trouble than good if they did that. Surely they wouldn't kill Stackhouse just for that, either . . . 

I crept carefully out of my hole-up and rose cautiously through the thick thistle and leaves. It was quiet here. No noise came to my ears. There was no sound of gunfire, no sound of footsteps, no sound of tanks. I went forward to stand naked in the forest. Uneasily, I ran behind a tree, hugging next to it for all I was worth. 

I was so vulnerable and exposed here. The trees were sparse and thin, struck to death by the cold hand of winter. My survival training had taught me to stay always undercover, always in places where I could be easily concealed. Oh, so now my training was coming in? Where had it been when Stackhouse had been shot, when I had ejected from the plane? Where had it been when I had climbed the rock face up to communicate with my ship? Where-

Enough questions!

Oh, God, I was already driving myself crazy. I needed out of here, I needed out of here **now.**

I took deep, calming breaths again. Still hugging the tree, I glanced around and listened. My gaze wandered up the gentle slope and then back down. The whole slope was covered in the sparse trees. The slope wasn't steep, but I couldn't peek over the top of it, which meant I couldn't see what was on the other side.

Nervously, I considered running up to look down at the other side. But no, that would do me more harm than good. What if the whole Serbian army was posted on the other side of that slope and decided at that exact second to take a look up the hill and spotted me?

No time.

I sucked in my breath and raced away from my naked, thin tree and to another one.

And then to another.

And then to another. 

And then to another.

My head was throbbing as fiercely, the beginnings of a subtle migraine. The breath inside of my throat was caught and icy, but I continued on, my boots making small crashes on the dead leaves underneath me. I didn't care. The RP was miles away and I needed to cover them. I needed to cover them as quickly as I could.

Suddenly the trees in front of me thickened into fleshy green bundles. I paused, panting. It was as if the great damn gods in heaven had decided to stick a wall in front of bricks so that they could differentiate between the two. I cautiously crept forward. 

**Foxman, foxman, **I heard a voice singing inside my head, **creeping across all the land.**

My sister used to sing that song when I wandered through the plains of Arkansas in our childhood. I wondered what she was doing right now, and if she knew that I downed in a country full of frogs and spiders. My sister hated bugs. She hated them so much she wouldn't let me mention their very name in her presence. She loved foxes, though, anything cuddly, red, and with long, fluffy tails. Foxman was her pet name for me. I wondered if she thought of me, if she though of me still as Foxman. I wondered if right now she was staring at fox and thinking of me, her kid brother.

****

Stop it. Just stop it.

I snapped back. God, had I spaced again? I couldn't afford this, goddamn it, I couldn't afford any of it! I needed to **think! **No more questions!

I skulked forward through the wall of trees and peered out. I gaped at what I saw.

A dam, high and wide, straddled a valley, cutting it into two. A great lake rested on one side, sparkling in the pale sunlight. On the other side of the dam was a wide, gushing river. The landscape around it was mountainous and rocky, trees and cliffs jutting out at almost every angle. I looked around myself. The trees had grown in clumps on this slope. Most of the slope ended in a precipice that ended in a straight drop into the water below. I look down below me.

The dam started at one edge of the valley and extended towards the other, connecting at both. Below me, it started and extended. The top of the dam allowed a narrow, flat space that acted like a walkway from one side to the other. On either side of the walkway was an angled wall that led into the waters of the river and lake. 

This wasn't such a good idea. If I ran across, I'd be right in the open. I'd have no cover, easy prey for any watching hawk. Or sniper. The land on either side of me led into the water and I could see no end to the seemingly endless land.

I took the map out of my pocket. This whole trek had been for nothing. I couldn't get across and the only way to go was back. I couldn't risk exposing myself any more. Was I going the right way? Maybe I wasn't. Maybe the RP was back over that hill.

No. Indeed, I had to cross this cave of a valley to reach it. I looked in disbelief. I had to cross this? I was open on all sides. I couldn't do it! I'd be picked off in a second! They'd kill me with their first shot!

I took out my radio and tried to find the Carl Vinson. No. I had gotten too low to do any good. Damn it, I needed to cross this valley. I stared across the 300-foot distance. I could run and make it. But I'd still be terribly exposed for long enough. I scanned the hills. I could see no sniper, but that didn't mean they weren't there.

Do or die.

I tried my radio a last time. All I heard was the terrible, ominous crackle of static. 

I looked again across the wide gap. I sucked in my breath, said a wordless prayer, and started to run.

I could see the other side, clear as day, glinting in the sunlight like something beautiful. Almost there . . . almost there . . . just a few more yards . . .

A bullet whistled past my ear, grinding into the stone behind me.

"Aaah!" I fell forward, the adrenaline that had been fueling me rushing to my head. I began a wild roll down the side of the dam. The world rushed by me in blur, colorful and painful. My head banged into the hard concrete, and bullets rained down from the heaven, sending me streaming into hell. 

****

FLIP!  


I tucked my head underneath my legs and flipped over onto my back, a painful journey. The lake was now rushing up at me, a sparkling blue death trap. A bullet grazed through my hair, missing me by an inch, and still, the lake continued to come closer, sparkling and shimmering like death.

Ground! Ground!

I changed my roll into a leap for the mushy ground that anchored the dam into the lake. It was seated at the bottom of the dam, the bank of the lake. If I could catch it in time, only part of me would be submerged into the water. 

A bullet sank into my pack and went through, splitting one of my bags in half, and my rope and compass splashed into the lake below. Desperately I lunged turned my roll again into a spring and went forward.

REACH!

The ground caught my fingers and I gripped it, hanging on for life as the bullets continued to slam around me. My legs were submerged in water. Iciness poked at me painfully as I dragged myself up the bank and down on the ground.

My legs shaking, the cold traveling from there up to my arms and in a matter of seconds, my whole body started to shake in cold convulsions that I feared. 

A bullet spat into the tree ahead of me.

GET UP! RUN! **RUN!**

I dragged myself up and started dashing away. The bullets no longer rushed around me, or in back of me. They no longer came at all.

But I wasn't safe! RUN!

I didn't care where I was running. As long as I was running away, away from the sniper, away the icy deathtrap that the lake was, away the chills that were snaking up my spine. 

I just ran, just ran, ran, and ran. Get away, get safe!

Finally, when the shakes had taken hold of my entire being, I collapsed, exhausted, in a hole-up that was made of branches and thistles. 

I started to cry. The tears I couldn't keep in any longer, tears that shook me so that my body was swaying. Why did this have to happen to me? Why were they chasing me? What had I done to them, what had made them hate me and despise me like I was some animal? What was I? Nothing? Worth nothing, was nothing?

The tears didn't stop until I made them. It seemed that I could cry forever, that I would never be all cried out, as people always said in books that they were. I had an endless quantity of tears that was drilled deep in me by the drill of the Bosnian animals that had shot my plane down.

God, why did they do this? Was my life now just an endless amount of questions?

It didn't matter. What did it matter? Nothing mattered. They had reduced me, reduced everything.

Good-bye, world, have fun without me.

How could they make me feel this weak? 

A boom suddenly echoed throughout this hell of a forest and I flinched in its mightiness.

There was no more thread of logical reasoning. My tears weren't done, but I made myself stop anyway.

  
Damn everything. Damn this world. Damn these damn revelations that I shouldn't be having and these damn questions.

Damn Reigart, damn Stackhouse, damn O'Malley, damn Rodway, damn everything is this entire world that had an answer to anything.

I wrestled my way through the thistles and the branches. 

Damn everything, damn nothing but myself.

Here I come, bullets, come and eat me alive!

I started to race forward, toward the rally point. Maybe when I was running I'd be lucky enough to be hit. 

It was worth a shot.

"Piquet said you had something for me," Reigart told O'Malley as they walked hurriedly below deck. 

"I do," O'Malley replied. Reaching into his pocket, he took out a small, business card. "Some card for some media. He said that he wants to the reporter to come on board. He seemed very mad about something, sir. I don't think it was about this news, but something else. I don't think he wanted to talk to you."

"I wonder why," Reigart muttered, taking the card and reading it. Media people were scumbags. He didn't need the likes of them aboard his ship. 

"Sir, if I may ask, what are we doing about Burnett?" O'Malley asked. "We are attempting a rescue, correct?"

"You know, Tom, you should be a psychic," Reigart said sarcastically. "Because, as of now, we are not!"

"What?"

"Piquet forbids it," Reigart said, his tone quietly furious. "It'll disrupt the peace process."

"But he's down and being pursued," O'Malley protested. "It's against everything if we do not attempt a rescue mission. He can die! He's in harms way!"

"Do you think I don't know that, O'Malley?" Reigart snapped, loudly and impatiently. "Do you think I didn't argue with him? Do you think I did not beg with him? He will not allow it, Tom. Just lay it down. We have to contact Burnett."

"We have to tell Rodway," O'Malley said, stubbornly subdued.

"Where do you think we're going?" 

They continued their walk in silence.

__

Stackhouse was falling, falling in a dizzy pattern that I couldn't even pick out.

"Chris," he said, his voice mangled.

"Stack," I said back.

He still went in that dizzying pattern, falling faster and faster. I stayed in my elevated position, watching his fall like he was a person I didn't know, didn't care about.

Why was this happening to me? What had I done to deserve this?  


"Chris," he said again.

I didn't answer this time. This time, I started to fall after him, in the same spirals, tracing his pattern.

"Chris."

I started screaming as the ground rushed up to me.

What was happening? The wind was screaming around me. What had happened?

There was a crash, a thud, a shot, a boom, then everything for me went dark.


	5. Try To Breathe

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

I want to know what you guys think about the way I'm writing it. If it's good, bad, in the middle. I just want to know. Is it going to fast? Should I make the chapters longer? Constructive criticism is always welcome, because I feel I'm under my usual par. Thanks anyway.

Chapter Five

Try To Breathe

Every moment my feet touched the leafy ground, Stackhouse's image was in my mind. He was always falling, always in that never ending spiral that led to nowhere except death. He was always being shot, always being mangled, always falling. He never stopped falling.

The trees in front of me were opening up, marking an open plain. No bullets had flown since I had started this suicide run. No mines had exploded, no bombs had fallen, no sniper had decided to take me out. Where was the effort, people? I was one man, on the run from mere hundreds, and they couldn't find me racing through this incredibly thin forest? Come on, man, where was the _effort_?

Maybe they couldn't see me. But the plain was in front of me now, its dead grass and stalks like a carpet to heaven. Yes, I'd be in one of the most exposed and vulnerable positions I could be in. They'd have to find me. One bullet and I'd join Stackhouse where I deserved to be and he didn't. 

But as I started across the open field, my mind started to wander.

__

What am I doing? I can't do this. I'm not stupid. I have a family back home, a family who loves me and wants me back. I am an American soldier. I don't give up and kill myself. Just because Stackhouse died, does it mean I must join him and ease my conscious?

Yes, another voice hissed, painfully. _Yes, and I know it. It dosen't matter what others have done before me. They are not I and I am not they. They are alive, but the guilt of what they've done has eaten at them everyday. I am not going to be like that._

Who are they?

I thought only crazy people talked to themselves. I was perfectly sane, wasn't I? Perfectly sane with a death wish, that was all. 

__

Be a fighter. I'm being a coward.

A coward?

I was halfway across the empty field and still no shells had been fired upon me.

__

Yes, a coward. I'm taking the easy way out.

The line of trees was so close to me now, the dead field almost completely behind me. And still, no shots had even reached my ears.

__

The other way would be to die, the other voice screamed. _If I end it, I will avenge Stackhouse's death, the death that I cause and wrought for being stupid and trying to be hot shot._

I breached the line of tress, breathing hard. 

No bullet. No bomb. No mine. No sniper.

__

Foxman, Foxman, whispered a voice. 

I kept running, kept applying pressure to my lungs and legs. If I kept running, I'd eventually reach another empty, wide, open field. And if I didn't get shot at there, there was always another empty, wide, open field. Eventually, a bullet would find its way into one of my vital organs. Eventually, I'd be taken prisoner and be forced to suffer a horrible death. Like the death I had handed Stackhouse on a golden platter.

Breathing raggedly, I stopped, my head spinning from the crazy run and lack of oxygen. I reached down to one of my pockets and unearthed my map. Flipping it open, I pinpointed the rendezvous. I checked my position and then checked it with the one on the map.

I was half a mile away at a slow jog that would take me six minutes at the most, four if I ran my heart out. 

I might as well make contact with Reigart and tell him of my suicide plans before he sent out another 20 million bird and lives. He'd probably be happy to hear about it. One less cocky, arrogant pilot to worry about. I'd tell him of my mistake, the Serbs, and why Stackhouse had died, for my error. He'd get the full story out of me and then I'd either take my own life or run until the Serbs found me.

I remembered the military code of conduct. An American soldier would never willingly give himself to the enemy. Well, I was breaking the code now. They'd have me and take me prisoner or kill me. The latter was more tantalizing at the very moment. Hopefully they'd be cruel, selfish bastards and take me as they did Stackhouse. That was the ideal death.

I shoved the map back into its respectable pocket and started running again.

"Alpha Whiskey, come in. This is Arc Angel 0-6. Hear me."

Reigart looked at Marine Captain Rodway, then at his Master Chief O'Malley. Taking a breath, he nodded at the specialist to bring Arc Angel up on his radio.

"Arc Angel, this is Alpha Whiskey," she said. "Go ahead, 0-6."

"Alpha Whiskey," Burnett said. Reigart tried to pick his condition from his voice. He was panting and breathing hard. "This is 0-6. Am at the rally point and . . . . . . . . . . . .. Awaiting your arrival."

"0-6, current Intel says that your rally point is currently undoable for pick-up. You gotta hump it out to the safe zone. I repeat." He started to hammer out the code without waiting for a reply from his navigator. When he finished, there was no sound on the other end. Not even the sound of heavy breathing. "0-6?"

"_What?"_

Reigart winced. "You heard me, soldier."

"I don't understand. I repeat, I am at the rally point and awaiting pick-up."

Reigart winced again. "No, you're not. You have to get to the safe zone."

There was silence again and this time, it stayed that way for a long time.

I checked my map over, not believing I was hearing Reigart correctly. This was my rally point! I frantically checked my maps, then my position, and then my maps again. 

Suddenly I wondered why I wanted this so bad. I wanted to die anyway. 

But suddenly the words coming from my mouth were out of impulse, not though decision.

"I don't understand. Why is this spot not doable for pick-up? I am ready to go, I repeat, I am good to go."

What? Where were the words of the suicidal man? It was just the taste of freedom, that was it. It didn't matter. If I had to hump it out to the safe zone, I'd get shot at in the process. 

And suddenly again, I found some inner part of me coming through a black lake, reaching for the surface, struggling for breathe and right to exist.

No, I wanted to die.

Was I suddenly second-guessing my decision to end my life? No, I had thought this out long and hard. Stackhouse had died because of my error and now I'd kill myself of my own accord, whether it be death or otherwise.

"Burnett!"

Reigart's sharp, nasty voice brought me back. I stared at the radio.

Was he commanding _me_?

I grew angry. Where did he get the authority to command me and tell me I couldn't be rescued here? Goddamn, I was down and it was their job to get me out. That's what their job had trained them to do. I flinched at the radio and tried to keep myself from slamming it into the forest floor in frustration.

"0-6," he said, catching himself, but his voice was still despicable and full of contempt. "You are a naval combat aviator. You are trained for this. Now use your head! Think above all things. Use you training and your head. Create some angles between you and your pursuers. Get yourself to the safe zone."

"What-" I started, enraged, allowing the fire to feed me and enhance my lust for the end.

"Don't question. Just do it. Get yourself to the safe zone and we will bring you home, I repeat, we will bring you home."

I almost threw it against the log I was sitting on.

How could they do this to me? How? I was asking for my life when I had already decided to take it and they were dangling it before me, pulling me back again into where I didn't care. What more did they want from me? I'd already given Stackhouse's life. Did they need mine too?

I suddenly stopped, frozen on the train of though.

And a sound. 

A sound of voice and rumbling and clatter.

The sounds of a force.

The sounds of an army.

"Someone's coming," I whispered into the radio, creeping towards another log and peeking over it. When nobody on the radio answered, I clicked it shut and put it in my pocket. It would create too much static. 

The Serbs were coming.

My wish was right before me.

I couldn't help myself. I leapt up and bolted.


End file.
